No witty title.

(I'd suggest reading the post before this one first)

Second, I'm not sure how much I want to reveal of myself in this blog. So, I ignore it. The truth is that it's not easy to just sit down and write about my life. I don't think about it, experience or express myself in a half ass manner. It feels gross to me to sit down and chatter on about how things are "fine". They may actually be that way and there is comfort in that but I'd say I have two days out of thirty that are "fine".

Most days, there is a constant low humming in the back of my mind of things I haven't attended to, things that need to be finished and the ever present, cleaning the house. These nagging forces rip any creativity and inspiration right out of my hands before I can sit in front of the keyboard. I tell myself that if I can't keep up with all of those responsibilities then I don't deserve to spend the time writing. Because writing to me is a luxurious gift.

At the beginning I feel excited to find out how I'm going to craft all my thoughts and feelings into sentences. I'm usually surprised to find my original thought taking a tangent but that's like being alone carrying out your day and running into a great friend who tells you exactly what you need to hear, exactly when you need it. It's an exhilarating feeling to know that what I put down might "matter" to someone, that my honesty will make a difference to someone. That writing is an art and I might be doing what all artists attempt, to evoke a response from their creation. When I am done, I am transported to a place of strength and I'm proud of myself. It physically changes how I feel, stress leaves my body, my mind is clear and I'm happy and renewed. The challenge for me now is to be brave, put it out there, allow myself to feel the gift. Trust myself.